Before the Cult, Page 3

  “Yet.”

  “So when?”

  “Supper. Perhaps.”

  “Okay.” Macxermillio exchanged a glance with Macfearson. He cleared his throat. “Do you wanna be left alone?”

  “I don’t know. Doesn’t matter if you are here anyway. Nothing I can’t do with you guys around except masturbating I guess.”

  Macfearson stood up from the chair and walked over to view the wound in the reflection. “Man, you are hyperventilating. Never seen you this upset in my life.” He peered deeper into the wound, narrowing his eyes. “I think you should cover it up.”

  “No. There is something about it.” I paused to think. “It’s a conversation starter.”

  Macfearson chuckled. “I guess so.” He turned Macxermillio. “ Macx, what do you think?”

  Macxermillio only laughed. A smile flickered on my face. “I’m gonna go for a walk to the shops now. I’ll see you guys later,” said Macxermillio, picking up his backpack from the floor.

  “Cool. See you later.”

  “You guys want anything?”

  Macfearson replied, “Can you get me a new lighter and pack of ciggies?”

  He nodded. “And you, Sandz?”

  “It’s Wednesday. Get me three beers.”

  “750s?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He left the room.

  Macfearson stared for a long time at the wound, clearly contemplating something.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Don’t you wonder how it will be if you cut it? Extended its parameter?”

  I laughed. “Sounds like a brilliant idea.”

  6

  It’s not happiness in a bottle but an illusion of one. That is what alcohol is. Happiness is a state of being I have never been close to or know the taste of. The thing about alcohol is that it detaches you from your problems, it does not sever you from them, it just distances you enough to be desensitized to the degree your predicament actually affects you. It offers a false sense of hope for the first few drinks, then as I continue drinking my outlook becomes even more dreary. Then dread draws closer to your face until it all becomes fuzzy and muddled as this world with its unfathomable norms. The grief for what I never knew, for where I should be and for how things are supposed to be disperses for a moment and later it returns denser. Then the coagulated sadness strains the body and the soul of its energy and will. Each subsequent slumber grows longer and from each I wake even more tired and dazed than before. Faced with my forlorn hopeless state, I dwell in my crying fits, quivering to the floor and helping myself to a slit or two. As the self-harm loses its ability to feed the craving a bottle of alcohol works as a mediator. Somehow it kept me alive…not that being alive is what I want. I think drugs, any kind, were there not to soothe the pain or provide relief but to help us endure a bit more, they are the equivalent of the last dive you make at the end of a race – their usefulness is conditional. Creatures with our kind of consciousness are given the ability to escape our current reality and drugs manipulate this ability, stretching it to its bounds. The 750ml Black Label beer bottle looked cold. It was tantalizing and I was eager to manipulate my consciousness to ward off the calling’s weight.

  “Do you have classes this afternoon?” asked Macxermillio.

  "No, I don't. I'm done for today," I said, staring at the red and black label on the bottle of beer on the desk next to my laptop. I read what's on it, “ Champion beer for champion men.”

  Macfearson laughed. “Beautiful isn’t it?”

  “I fuckin’ love beer.”

  I knew after drinking I would lie down. I looked forward to it because it would be dreamless. It would be a break from the nightmares that haunt and tire my soul. I would wake up unable to remember what they are about, left with the terror and the sheets dampened by sweat. Napping that afternoon would be different. I was going to wake up with a headache and a confused mind, but that was better.

  Macxermillio picked up a greasy glass on top of the table. Rinsed it at the basin and placed it on the desk. He gestured for Macfearson to open the bottle.

  Macfearson sighed, grabbed the bottle and opened it with his mouth. “ You guys should really learn how to do this.” He gave it to Macxermillio.

  “No thanks,” replied Macxermillio as he poured the beer into the glass. He slid it to me. “There you go, Sandz.”

  I stared at it, suddenly overwhelmed. “I can’t go to supper guys.” Tears began blurring my view. “Eating is work. I can’t keep doing it anymore. Feels like I’m forcing food down my throat and chokin’ myself. I don’t have the energy to keep going there or being out there. I am tired guys. I just wanna be alone and stay alone. I don’t wanna see anyone or talk to anyone. I can’t go to supper. I just wanna sleep now and…maybe never wake up.”

  Macxermillio nodded. “Okay.”

  “I’m sorry guys.”

  “Are you gonna do that after your drink?” Macfearson asked.

  I stared at the gold beer, bubbles racing to the top. “I don’t feel like drinking anymore.”

  I turned to my bed measuring the energy and the will it would take to be in it including all the associated activities like taking my shoes and clothes off. The calculations’ results were daunting.

  “Macx?”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you put me to bed, please?" I wept.

  He lifted me off the chair with his arm placed under my knees and the other under my shoulder blades. I was a dead weight in his arms. He placed me in bed, took my shoes off and pulled my pants off. Then he covered me with the duvet.

  He patted my arms. “Sleep well.”

  I could only manage to thank him mentally.

  “Would you like us to leave?” Macfearson asked.

  I did not answer.

  “Sandz?”

  I could not respond. The truth is I did not care or know the answer.

  “Okay,” said Macxermillio. “Um…we gonna take the rest of your bottles to the fridge in case you want it later.”

  Upon opening my eyes from sleep, I saw a figure sitting in a chair watching me sleep or waiting until I wake up. I froze in my sleeping position. In the silence, the figure leaned back in the chair with his legs crossed. He appeared to be wearing a robe, his tall silhouette seemed to suggest. No noises came from the hallway which was a sign that it was late at night. The life of the residence was inactive, some students must be already in bed, went out or were surfing the internet or using their computer for something else absorbing.

  Sweat broke on my brow and I strained my breath. After a few minutes, I gathered enough strength to say something. I figured the best strategy would be to exert enough confidence and surprise the intruder by not sounding caught off guard.

  “What the hell are doing?” I said.

  If he is here to kill me that would be nice, I thought.

  The figure leaned forward. He murmured, “You don’t need to do it anymore. We heard him speak in the hallway we got the information we needed.”

  “Who?” I frowned.

  “ Jay,” it was Macxermillio. “We are nabbing him tonight. If you want you could rest, we only sampling him tomorrow. I and Fearson can handle him.” I could sense him smiling in the dark. “Prepare to bid him farewell.”

  “Thank you. What were you doing?”

  “I was just watching you sleep.”

  I frowned. “That’s kinda weird.”

  “Well, I wanted to tell you face to face. I had to wait. I know how you hate being woken up.”

  He stood up and walked to the door, the floor creaked under his weight. He opened the door and stood in the doorway, the light from the hallway fell into my room, laying his giant shadow across. He glanced my way. "Goodnight, Sandz. You know, after tomorrow we won’t have to live like this anymore…if all goes well.”

  “Goodnight, Macx.”

  He closed the door behind him and the darkness took over the room again.

  Chapter 2

/>   1

  One of those things that weren’t for sober minds was the sampling.

  We were not afraid of death whether it was the image of it or the sight of it or its imminence. We honoured and revered it; if it came we would embrace it. We wanted to die (both because of the pain of our existence here and the fact it could transport us where our existence is welcomed), but we just had to do it right. The trick of the sampling was tormenting the soul and the body of the sample until we broke its will to carry on living in this world, much like the same tormenting worthlessness this world imposes on us until suicide presents itself as the only way. We did whatever it took, decapitation, drowning, flaying, mutilation and all sorts of torture, to make them grovel for their own death. We offer them a way out in a form of suicide we choose. This way their state of mind is a bit similar to ours, their death is self-inflicted and possibly when they transition we will be able to tell from observing their eyes where they end up (heaven, hell or our home). It can take days, weeks or months to get them to that state, but we always managed to push them there. If the way of suicide, which is a form of transportation of the soul, is discovered that would take us home (as the calling made us feel) we would do it without a flinch. It's not the pain that concerns us, the more the pain the better (Macxermillio says you will be able to feel the death on you, you will be able to feel the journey and that the pain is equivalent to the road in some instances). To dwell about is endless torture; each creature deserves to be in a place where it rightfully belongs, its habitat. A place of belonging is an integral part of one’s person-hood. If it is death it takes to feel like a person, even remotely, then death is what we shall accept with an immeasurable joy and gratitude. The quest to attain our person-hood is not an easy one, it is not without sin or evil.

  The blade of the sword sunk into his bicep like a blazing knife through a cold block of butter, it was just a slit.

  Sweet sweet beautiful blood, I gasped mesmerised at its sight. Excited.

  The sample flinched into consciousness. “Oh shit! “

  “It’s about time you woke up,” Macfearson spoke. “We’ve been waiting ever so patiently.”

  “Shit! Fuck! Sandy, what is this?” He tried tugging his left hand off the wall, unsuccessfully so. He was cuffed with beast depowering iron cuffs attached to the stone cobbled wall, hinges reinforced into the wall. His ankles suffered the same fate. We had stripped him off, spread him like a canvas. Our own little Jesus.

  “Sandy, you bitch! You sick freak! Fuck you!” he raged, I loved watching his belly tremble as he did. “Help! Help!”

  Macxermillio comically looked around. “Huh? Looks like nobody cares. Or is it that they can’t hear you?” He cackled with an almost lunatic revelry.

  “Help! Help ! Hel- “Macfearson punched him in the stomach.

  “Why do you think you’re not gagged? “ Macfearson rhetorically asked, glaring at him.

  Macxermillio was behind me on a crate of beer, sipping on a 750ml. The place was wrecked and had been abandoned for years unknown to us. Dirt accumulated on the floor, collapsing ceiling spilling its insides, mould, woodpile scattered around, bins, paper and plastic. The Sampling Chamber, as we had named it, was Macxermillio’s find. Far away from the city or the lifelings. Perfect for a sampling ritual. It was dark and gloomy with just enough light for a deathling to dwell in, which was little light (that was how we preferred it). I could sense generations of ghosts of the persons who once stayed on the abandoned farm scampering about and watching us, lonely spirits of the countryside being treated to some horror style entertainment every time we visited. If they cowered in repulsion or horror, it was way better than the decades of boredom and un-eventfulness that this place was accustomed to.

  “You freak! You’re mad you know that?” He continued, “What you gonna do? Kill me? “

  “It’s actually weird that you are asking me this question when you have always known the answer. Do you remember what you said to your mates?” I softly spoke my eyes fixed on the blood, felt the hurt, anger and hatred towards him simmer like pins and needles.

  He did not respond, only wriggled and panted hopelessly.

  “Either way, don’t you think it’s a bad idea for a person in your situation to be so mean?”

  Silence.

  "Let me remind you," my voice mellow to my ears, every word making my compulsion and anger worse, "You told me, in front of your mates, that if I go on a killing spree to remember to spare you. Now, why would you believe that and always managed being an ass to me? Belittle me, humiliate me in front of others?”

  "I was joking, just messing around. You know how the guys are. That's what guys do, I did not mean to tune you, Sandy!" he spluttered.

  “And I didn’t mean to get hurt,” A dark smile flickered across my face. This was exhilarating every time, never got used to it. “Answer honestly. You have always seen me as a freak, right?”

  “C’mon, man, let’s not do this!” He wept.

  We devoured the moment, the moment of complete power over another person’s will.

  “You are a freak! Fuck, you not even one bit human! You are insane! “He shrieked.

  I am not human, I cognitively agreed.

  “You see that is why we are, Jay. I am not human. I don’t belong here,” I shrugged, “We both know it. That is why you gave me a hard time. That is why we need you to be our little Jesus today.”

  The calling stronger than ever, I stared down at my feet. Lifelings are creatures devoid of tolerance. They deserve anything lesser than mercy because they never grant it either.

  “I am gonna kill you, Sandy, when I get down. Even in my death, I swear to God, I am gonna make sure I make your life a living hell,” Jay threatened.

  I disappointed him with my bland incongruent response. “If you were somebody else, another student, I would have been kinder, but you see it’s people like you that don’t deserve that. If not all of you lifelings.” I paused. “Tell me. What would you do to be home right now, Jay? To see your parents or your loved ones? To go back the res? Or whatever shit you’re into? I hear moments like these make people ponder how they have lived their lives and usually they discover what matters most or what mattered most. I know that you have that thing in your mind, tell me what would you do right now to get out of this situation?”

  “Everything,” he pleaded, his face sweating with desperation.

  “Tell me, Jay. Who likes desperate people?”

  “Uh-um. No one,” he mused, his breath trembling under the weight of fear.

  “Why are you being so desperate then? Chill out, man.”

  “Okay. Yeah, whatever you want man.”

  I sighed. “Whatever I want? Fuck, what did I say about being fuckin’ desperate, Jay? “

  “Nobody likes a desperate person. I’m sorry. “He spluttered.

  “Fuck, man! This is so hopeless. Now you’re sorry?”

  “I don’t know what you want me to do, okay! Fuck, man. You’re messing with me!” He bawled.

  “Good. I imagine your balls.” I mused.

  “My balls?” He asked, confused.

  “You would give your balls to see your family again, wouldn’t you?”

  He stayed quiet for a while. “I guess so.”

  “It’s either you know or you don’t!” I grabbed his ball sack. He whimpered and trembled, eyes tightly shut. “If you are not sure make up your mind real quick.” Placed the blade of my folding knife on the base.

  “Shhhhiiit!” He shuddered and gasped. “Uhhh…give me…give me some time, okay? Just a few seconds, please!”

  "Fuck. You're not losing your balls just answer the goddamn question, okay? "I replied in exasperation.

  “Okay. Yes, Yes I would!” He cried.

  “Good. Very good, Jay. Now I can move on.” Pause.” You see, Jay, I wanna go home too. Where I truly belong. To the fields and the crop. We are going to film your face while you die to solve the transition puzzle I suppose. So is be a
good genie pig, okay?”

  “Is this some kind of a morbid cult?” He scowled, incredulous.

  “Do you know anything of the crop, Jay?”

  “No. What the fuck is that?”

  “If you do just tell us.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  I examined him. “Swallowing tough news like a man, huh? Trying too hard not to seem desperate? Good boy! Your eyes are big. We will be able to make out all you will see.” Pause. “Oh, Jay, I have been waiting so long for this. The compulsion was just too much, or shall I say the calling?” I found my face warmed with a grin, thinking of how it was all worth the wait and trouble.

  His brow creased, clearly confused.

  “Let me do the honours, today,” I asked Macfearson.

  “I will give you a chance, but I’m still the one who gets to spit his skull when you are done,” He spoke with enthusiasm, like a kid about to have a slice of his birthday cake.

  This was the day, my holy fucking day.

  “As long as I get to shove the barbed wire dildo into his ass.”

  Macxermillio added, “Love me some painul!”

  2

  The sun shone through the windshield as it drowned into the horizon. It rather drown than grace such monstrosities like us with its warmth. That we respected, that we expected. The dirt road was peculiarly bumpy, not shying from expressing its discomfort and dislike. That we detested. Its judgmental and callous attitude rattling our truck to its joints and bolts. That was to be expected from a dirty dirt road, but this afternoon the mood was not that gracious in the truck. It was one accompanied with clenching jaws and flaring nostrils. An atmosphere not fond of intrusion of distraction.

  Macxermillio was the agent of its fortification, his hands tightly grasping the wheel. His breathing laborious the more discomfited he became. With the same discomfiture, Macfearson played the clip in a loop desperately hoping he had overlooked something or, even more desperate, that we had not filmed well. The more he watched the more irrefutable the conclusion became. We had failed.

  Macfearson sighed and wearily dropped his hands into his lap, his mouth gaping and eyes staring into nothingness. “No,” he mouthed. Seeing defeat on his face was a scary sight because it was rare.